Everything and everyone is a commodity, it seems. Figure out your audience, who you want to reach, and mold yourself to that.

And if you don’t fit any mold?

This is not the first time I’ve written about this topic, so clearly it’s under my skin. I saw something on Twitter the other day – really wish I had taken a screenshot of who said this, but I didn’t, so please direct me to the source if you’ve got it – a few little lines that pointed out that we assume that a man’s perspective is neutral. A man can, and should, write to and for both men and women. If, however, a woman writes, we assume that she’s writing for women only.

That bugged me.

Made me think, too.

How many men have studied the book of Ruth? The book of Esther? Have gone through and carefully picked out the stories of the heroines of the faith, cherishing them as they do the tales of David and the Apostles?

I don’t have answers to those questions. I do wonder, though, how many men subconsciously shrug their shoulders and think, “Nah. Those are chick stories. Nothing there for me.”

Except it’s the word of God.

Of course I’m not claiming that I or any other female writer is on the same level as Holy Scripture. You’d probably find charred ground where my body used to occupy space if I did that. What I am claiming is that this weird divide in the Church runs deep. It’s more than squabbling over whether or not a woman can preach, which solid, orthodox Christians can reasonably disagree on. (For the record, I think complementarians are wrong, but they think I’m wrong, so it’s all good). It’s this bone-deep belief that women don’t have anything of substance to say. That a man can’t possibly learn anything from a woman because “she doesn’t get it.”

But I, a woman, am automatically expected to adjust pronouns and situations in my head when a man preaches or writes. I am expected to “get” what he’s talking about when he relates a theological concept to, I don’t know, a football game or working on a car. (Yes, super broad and stereotypical).

What is that? Why do we do this?

See, my mind is full of more than glitter and fluff. I want to write about, learn about, teach about concepts and stories that are found in other places than the “pink pages” of Scripture. Not that glitter, fluff or pink pages are bad. I’m a fan of glittery shoes and pins, I love me a fluffy blanket and nobody is ever going to convince me that Ruth and Esther are boring or “light.” But I can also discuss theories of the kenosis. I can tell you about the times the Holy Spirit speaks to me when I’m folding laundry. I wrote a book exploring the intersection of suffering and theology. (Shameless plug. Girl’s gotta pay those bills, you know).

In no way do I wish to diminish my brothers. I want to see men functioning in the full freedom and gifting that God has blessed them with. That shouldn’t come at the expense of the sisters, though. I want us to step up and embrace who and what God has made us to be as well (and that really does extend beyond nursery duty).

There’s this chapter in Scripture, Hebrews 11. We call it the “Hall of Faith.” And it is. But it’s also the “Hall of Freaks and Weirdos.” You think Noah let the fact that nobody had ever seen rain keep him from building the boat? You think Joseph was concerned about his branding, how it looked when he told his people to take his bones back to the Promised Land? You think Rahab was worried about losing her clientele when she hid the spies and threw herself into the mercy of God?

We thrill to these stories because they are of people, just like you and me, who dared to follow where God led them. While none of them were perfect (Abraham gets some serious side-eye from me), the overall pattern of their lives was one of focusing on Him. They weren’t worried about an audience, about metrics, about statistics, about who should and shouldn’t be doing what. He said “go,” and they went. As simple as that.

This is what I long for in the Church. How I would love for us to shed the language of “tribe” and “role.” How I ache for us to be still and seek His will. How I wish we would stop trying to put a Jesus veneer on what the world around us is doing and just be what He wants us to be – committed, obedient, loving.

Wouldn’t that be nice? Wouldn’t it be great if we stopped erecting artificial barriers? If we stopped believing, “He/she can’t speak into my life because I only let this type of person do that?” If we stopped crafting articles and sermons based on what we know people want to hear and instead speak and write as God commands?

Sounds wonderful to me.

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I had the joy of “meeting” Kate Motaung several years ago when she took over as the Fearless Leader of the Five Minute Friday community. (She did not give herself this title. I did. I don’t remember why, but it’s stuck in my brain). We have chatted via Twitter, Voxer and blog comments. As I’m sure others can attest, Kate has the unique gift of making one feel at home; I don’t doubt that, were I to show up in her driveway today, that I would be welcomed inside for tea and good conversation.

This is part of what made this book so fascinating for me. Kate writes of being torn between houses following her parents’ divorce and between continents after moving to South Africa in her early twenties. Her story is one of longing for home, of never quite knowing where or what that place is. Out of that longing, I believe she strives to give others a sense of comfort and security. Even those of us who have only connected with her through electronic means pick up on this and celebrate her gift of welcoming embrace.

Ultimately, and encouragingly, Kate reminds both herself and the reader that our true Home, the place our souls ache for, is not to be found in this life. We get teases, little glimpses, that give us hope and keep us going when things get hard, but we never get the full picture. We have to wait. So we sit in the discomfort, knowing that all is not as it should be, asking Jesus to daily give us the grit and the grace to navigate yet another bump in the road.

The pages of A Place to Land are full of honesty and humor. Kate looks unflinchingly at herself and allows us to do so as well. In that, we are given permission to be that honest. To acknowledge that we don’t always know the answers or do the right things. Her choice to tell her story in such a raw way is deeply refreshing. There are no neat and tidy bows, no pristine images of perfect kids and conflict-free living. There is, instead, a woman who consistently, constantly, preaches Jesus. His presence, His love, His guidance, His help. Over and over again, Kate finds Him in the middle of the mess. She shows the reader how to reach out for His hand.

God took the tug-of-war that waged in my soul, the thick rope that spanned across the ocean, and yanked from both sides. He cut it clean through the middle, somewhere over the depths of the Atlantic. And He made me look up. To see that the greatest and strongest pull is neither east nor west, neither here nor there. It’s the heavenward pull.

It’s the pull toward home.

I now know how to respond the next time someone asks me the simple question, ‘Are you heading home?'” Regardless of my earthly destination, and purely because of the grace of Christ’s sacrifice, I’ll be able to answer with confidence, ‘Yes. Yes I am.'”

– p. 266-267

To that I can only say, “Amen.”

Thank you, Kate, for sharing your story with us. Thank you for the hours you spend leading the ragtag FMF troop. Thank you for being who you are. Usikelelke.

I RECEIVED A FREE COPY OF THIS BOOK IN EXCHANGE FOR MY FAIR AND HONEST REVIEW.

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In 2010, I began feeling tired all the time. And achy. Like I was always just about to come down with something. No matter how much I did or didn’t sleep, I never felt rested. Sometimes, I had a fever for no apparent reason. Not high enough to be alarming, but present. Though I have never been a party-hearty kind of gal, it became apparent that something was wrong.

Fast forward eight years, a dozen or so CT scans, the same amount of ultrasounds, four MRIs and four surgeries later – I’m still tired.

No, not tired. Exhausted. Always. Every day. I rate my level of weariness on a scale of “I can push myself to do what needs to be done,” which is a good day, to “I slept for fourteen hours and I still need a nap.”

From the outside, I probably look like a lazy person. My alarm goes off at 6:00 a.m. every morning. Three-fourths of the time I stumble out of bed, only to fall asleep on the couch minutes later. I strive not to. I pull my breakfast (vegan, soy-free) protein shake out of the refrigerator and open my Bible. I blink my eyes wide and attempt to focus my fog-filled mind. It’s hard.

Yesterday I lay down, after lunch, with the thought, “I just need to close my eyes for a few minutes.” Then it was three hours later. I woke with a start, feeling guilty. The afternoon was gone. Hours that will never return.

People ask me how I’m feeling. Usually, I say, “I’m hanging in there.” And it’s true. I would like a new body. In fact, I long for a new body. I will never be thankful for malfunctioning organs and a poor immune system. But there’s a lot of sweetness in and among the bitter. I learn to sit at the feet of Jesus. I learn to find my value and identity in Him, not in myself or what I can accomplish.

Walking through the days in this body of decay prompts me to think on Heaven. The culmination of all things. The presence of God. No night, no pain, no sorrow. There, I won’t be tired. And that promise is enough.

Stop.

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Today we hear from my friend Lisa Brittain. (Post written in December 2017).

Welcome to Our Real

I didn’t feel like decorating the house for Christmas. In fact, without all the exterior cues – store shelves stocked with Christmas, houses lit up, and city light poles decked in festive notifications – I would have barely noticed the season was upon me. It was the sudden recognition I would soon be on Thanksgiving vacation, which squarely slapped me into reality. Christmas is almost here and it would happen with or without me.

The weekend after Thanksgiving I began dutifully pulling boxes up out of the basement. It was simply time management. Do it now or don’t do it at all. Along the way, I opened each tote to peek at the contents. My intent was to look for the bare essentials. “There’s nothing wrong with a minimalist Christmas,” I continually assured myself. My husband agreed, “Just enough so no one thinks we’re ‘skipping Christmas” – a reference to one of our favorite holiday movies, Christmas With The Kranks.

Please don’t leave… This isn’t an indictment of Christmas or the American way. It’s not a judgment on those who are enjoying a festive season. Please don’t feel or receive any condemnation for your choice to love Santa and display the Nativity.

The peeking led to digging through and pulling up thirty years of Christmas memories. Our walk down memory lane felt like an extension of Thanksgiving. Both my husband and I benefitted from the activity. Each uncovered item testified to the wealth we possess in family relationships, the full variety of life seasons and rich experiences of our past.

Though I had not the enthusiasm for producing a traditional Hallmark kind of Christmas around our house, I also had no intention of pretending Christmas was a figment of everyone’s imagination. My heart yearned for the celebration of The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. The tug of war was and still is, real and intense. I wonder, in a Charlie Brown kind of way, is this really all there is – commercialism, Pinterest worthy presentations and perfect pictures posted on social media, even giving to every conceivable cause known to man?

I would love to feel festive right about now. It would be a relief to my soul to feel a sudden urge to don a pair of Christmas socks and gaudy Christmas sweater as official garb for baking Christmas cookies for our entire neighborhood. Perhaps if I could feel the giddy joy of doing the stuff, it would signify a much-desired change of life seasons – out of the desert and into a lush meadow.

For this moment in time though, it would be fake. In fact, our precious neighbor saw me outside putting red and white and gold shiny ornaments on our Dogwood tree. Passing by she mentioned, “You must be feeling festive.” I looked her straight in the eye, this one whose husband passed away in March just the day before my mother in law walked into Jesus’ welcoming arms, and responded truthfully, “No, I’m truly not.” I saw relief flood her countenance as she confessed her lack of desire to set up her Christmas tree, which sat in a box in the living room.

Often, my heart screams out to the Lord, and sometimes to my husband, “I don’t know how to do this! I’ve never lived here before. Help me…”

I don’t understand Parkinson’s Disease. And guess what, medical professionals don’t really understand it either. We never saw it coming. Too young, my man, to be hampered with such a life-altering, energy draining, and uncertain disease. I don’t want to welcome PD into our lives. In fact, I want to slam the door shut, and shout at the top of my lungs, “There’s no room in this inn!”

A new normal? Sure, I get it. Why not us? Awful life circumstances happen to people every day. Younger older, richer and poorer, the ones who mean well, and those who don’t.

Just tell me the rules. Where are we on the game board? How do we avoid the pitfalls? Did we somehow land on the square indicating we have start over?

Ok, so we can start over. We have each other, and relationships with people who love us. So, how do we start over? And how do we move forward? Because my man needs to work. He loves to work. So, we pray. “Lord, we’re asking for a path and an open door… Your Light to show us the new way in which You are leading…”

Surely, this is a grieving season. We exhibit all the symptoms of grieving the death of a dream… the death of our vision for our future. That’s what it is for me – the realization life isn’t going to be for us as we hoped and dreamed. This is easier for me. I’m the optimist in the family, and I’m not the biggest loser.

For my husband, the loss has been overwhelming. First the diagnosis. Then the job loss. Now three years in, we are questioning the resurrection of his career. During the same three years, his mother languished in hospice. Her strong heart refused to quit after the stroke took the rest of her capacity for living. Now she is with Jesus, for which we are abundantly grateful.

He’s not quite Job, though Job is frequently mentioned around our home. I remind my man often, “I’m not leaving.” We’ll learn to do this new normal together. Our lives are full of blessings for which we are daily reminded to be grateful.

My suntanned feet man having grown up in church and regularly fed on the Word of God from a young age, he knows the right answers. Yet, somehow in the tremendous pit of pain and darkness, black writing on white pages isn’t enough. He is in need of the real presence of God holding him, catching his tears and listening to his brokenhearted questions.

This Christmas, this is where we’re living. I want real. My insides are clawing for an understanding of what it really means to welcome the King of Kings and Lord of Lords into our home. What if Joseph had come knocking at our door, his wife about to give birth? Would we help them… give them a place to rest… watched as she birthed the Word incarnate? Would we have believed Mary’s story? The real of what God selected them to do was messy and hard and heartbreaking and lonely at times.

My method for regaining equilibrium – finding my bearings in unsettling circumstances – is to ask myself questions: “What do I do when I don’t know what to do?” And then I answer myself: “Go back, Lisa, to what you know is true.”

I go back to tried and true Scripture for a foundation. Lately, I’ve found comfort in the 37th psalm. As I read it again and again, I feel peace wash away the fear and anxious thoughts. Here it is simply stated:

Trust in Him. Do good. Dwell in the land. Enjoy safe pasture. Delight myself in Him. Commit my way to Him. Trust Him. Be still before the Lord and wait for Him.

– Psalm 37:3-7, paraphrased

Other times I go back even further to where I started with God. That time in college when He found me in the deepest pit of despair. All was dark and I had no power to fix anything. In the depth of my soul, I was simply trying to disappear. I didn’t call it ‘wanting to die’, but my behaviors were leading me in the direction of death.

But God had His eye on me – many loved ones were praying, I now feel sure. One night, in a dream, the most trustworthy person I could imagine, my great-grandma Becky, sat on the edge of my bed and spoke simple truth to my aching heart. I dreamed it, yes, and please don’t make it weird.

God spoke into the deep darkness His rescue plan for me. When I awoke, I knew three things: 1) God loved me 2) He had a good plan for my life 3) I needed to follow Him. This was the unlikely and humble place of God choosing and calling little me to be His ambassador and receive the mission He has for my life.

Perhaps this is the heart connection I have with Mary – not that God pulled her out of a pit, but that He sent a messenger to personally meet with her. She knew when Gabriel left, stunned as she must have been, she had been chosen by God for His purpose. Surely, she had more questions than answers.

The real of her situation was that God’s calling put her reputation on the line. Suddenly, Joseph was forced to choose between what seemed a plausible betrayal and the glorious gift of God. The couple had to have been reeling as they too may have grieved the death of a dream for their lives. Nothing would be as they planned at the beginning of their betrothal.

Yet, God intervened. He confirmed to Joseph the truth of Mary’s situation. They were affirmed in their calling. Step by step, they lived the current day, no longer certain of what the future held for them. They chose faith. Trust. Hope. Obedience. And God was there with them. God, the Father, led the way. He, the Son of God, came to live with them.

With all my questions, I’m certain of this:

The real of Christmas was hard, scary, uncertain and raw. And out of darkness, the Light shone confirming the truth of God’s word and His presence with us. Emmanuel, welcome to our real…

Ponders:

What about you, friend? Are you seeking the real face of God in the middle of your circumstances? I pray you will, like me, simply pour out your questions. Be real with Him. He knows. He sees. He’s been in every feeling, thought and circumstance alongside you.

What comfort do you find in the real of Scripture?

How might the real of your circumstances add Light to your celebration of Christmas this year?

Eyes on Jesus…you’re shining!

********

Lisa Brittain and her husband, Randy, will soon be married 30 years. Together they are parents of two adult sons, and share their home with three adopted pups. By day Lisa works as a receptionist in the local middle school. However, her mission is to reveal the important voice of each woman and teach her how to share her overcoming God stories. It is Lisa’s true passion for Jesus and introducing women to Him, which flows in and through and around all the open moments of her everyday life.

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Remove from me the way of lying, and grant me Your law graciously. I have chosen the way of truth; Your judgments I have laid before me. I cling to Your testimonies; O Lord, do not put me to shame! I will run the course of Your commandments, for You shall enlarge my heart.